


Come So Hard Motherfuckers Wanna Fine Me

by sadtomato



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Concussions, Getting Together, Hand Jobs, Humor, M/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-15
Updated: 2013-12-15
Packaged: 2018-01-04 17:37:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1083778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadtomato/pseuds/sadtomato
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles wakes up naked on the bathroom floor with a throbbing headache and Derek Hale taking care of him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Come So Hard Motherfuckers Wanna Fine Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [donnersun](https://archiveofourown.org/users/donnersun/gifts).



> Based on a prompt from donnersun on twitter: "Stiles coming so hard he cracks his head on the bathroom sink." 
> 
> I did ~~hours of thorough research~~ one google search about concussion symptoms. I've never had one, so I have no idea if this is realistic, but just... you know. Suspend disbelief, okay?

When Stiles comes to, he’s a little confused. 

It’s not the first time he’s been knocked unconscious--it’s one of the hazards of running with werewolves. His thoughts are a swirly mess, but he’s aware of a bright, throbbing pain at the back of his skull. 

And Derek.

Derek is hovering over him, his face too close for Stiles to focus properly. Derek is here, in Stiles’ bathroom. His brow is furrowed with worry, and his hand is cupping the back of Stiles’ head, moving slowly over his skull and checking for injuries. Derek is here and he smells good, he looks good, and he’s touching Stiles.

“I wanted you,” Stiles says, his mouth forming the words before he’s even sure what he’s thinking. He knows it’s true, but he’s still not sure what’s going on.

“Are you okay?” Derek asks, still feeling up the back of Stiles’ head. He checks his hand, probably looking for blood, and sighs with relief when he finds none. “Stiles, can you tell me what day it is?”

“It’s Derek day,” Stiles answers, reaching up to cup Derek’s cheek. He brushes his thumb over the stubble there and smiles. “Derek day is delightful.”

“Can you tell me your name?” Derek asks. He’s not knocking Stiles’ hand away, and Stiles is sure that’s a good thing.

“Stiles. You just said.”

Derek rolls his eyes. “What’s your full name?”

“Not sure,” Stiles says, wincing as he tries to sit up. Derek holds him down with one hand flat against Stiles’ chest, and the skin-to-skin contact makes Stiles realize that he’s shirtless. Naked, actually--the stone tiles are cold against his bare ass. “Stiles Stiles? Stiles Hale?”

“What year is it, Stiles?” Derek asks, still holding him down. 

“I think it’s... well, it’s definitely not 1999. Or 2007.”

“Okay, we’re going to the hospital.” Derek looks worried, the furrow in his brow deeper now. “Stay put, I’m going to get you some clothes.”

Derek stands up, walks away, and leaves Stiles on the bathroom floor. Stiles thinks about sitting up, but the throbbing in his head and the ghost of Derek’s hand on his chest keeps him still. 

Derek comes back with a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt, but hesitates before he kneels down beside Stiles. He leaves again, opens the linen closet in the hall, and grabs a washcloth. When he comes back, he sets the clothes down on the floor and leans over Stiles’ body to wet the washcloth in the sink. Stiles watches from below as Derek wrings out the water, fascinated by the flex of his biceps.

“I’m just going to--” Derek says, but he never finishes his sentence. He drops to his knees beside Stiles, instead, and dabs at Stiles’ belly with the warm washcloth.

“I think I just took a shower? Is that why I’m in the bathroom?” Stiles asks, confused. 

“Just stay still for a second,” Derek says gruffly. He finishes washing Stiles, then folds the washcloth in half and wipes the edge of the bathroom sink, too. He must leave the washcloth in the sink, because when he kneels at Stiles’ side again his hands are empty. “Okay, can you sit up?”

Stiles tries, pushing up with all his strength, but the movement makes his head hurt. He whines and lays back on the cold tile floor, pouting up at Derek. “It hurts.”

“Your neck? Your back?” Derek asks, worry clouding his expression again.

“My pussy aaaaand my crack,” Stiles croaks.

“Stiles, focus. Does your neck hurt?”

“Just my head,” Stiles answers. “I think I might have hit it on something?”

“Yeah, I think you hit the counter when you passed out. Here, take my hand,” Derek says, lifting Stiles’ hand to his stomach. He laces his own fingers through Stiles’ and squeezes, and suddenly Stiles feels the pain start to dissipate. Derek is wincing, the veins in his arm turning black as he absorbs Stiles’ pain. 

It’s only a few seconds before the throbbing pain fades into a dull ache. Stiles still feels fuzzy and confused, but when he tries to sit up again he manages it without much trouble. 

“Here.” Derek tries to hand him a t-shirt. Stiles ignores it, lifts his arms straight up in the air, and waits for Derek to acquiesce and dress him like a child.

Derek stands, then reaches down to help Stiles to his feet. “Time to stand up.”

Stiles lets Derek pull him up, but he’s unsteady on his feet. He lurches forward and grabs the edge of the bathroom counter. When he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror, his heartrate spikes and he feels a sharp pang of longing. There’s something else, some sharper emotion that’s trying to fight its way through the slow, thick flow of Stiles’ thoughts, but it’s gone before he can figure out exactly what it is. 

He feels Derek’s hand wrap around his left ankle, and he realizes Derek’s dropped back down to his knees. “Lift up,” he says, pulling the leg of Stiles’ sweatpants up over his foot. He repeats the process on the other side, then stands and pulls the pants up to Stiles’ waist.

“You’re dressing me,” Stiles points out. Derek just nods and rests a hand on Stiles’ lower back.

“Can you walk?” 

Stiles nods. “Walk this way. Walk on the wild side. These boots were made for walkin’.”

“Exactly, good job. Let’s go get you checked out, okay?”

* * *

Stiles drifts off a little in Derek’s car on the way to the hospital, and Derek has to keep shaking his arm to wake him. 

“Come on, Stiles. Let’s go find Scott’s mom.” Derek helps Stiles out of the car, keeps an arm around his waist as they walk through the sliding doors of the emergency department. They have Melissa paged and Derek starts filling out a thick stack of forms attached to a clipboard.

He’s stumped by the first question, and has to ask Stiles what he should put down for “First Name.”

“Stiles,” Stiles replies, shrugging his shoulders. 

Melissa shows up quickly, panicked until she catches sight of Derek and Stiles sitting comfortably in the waiting room. 

“What’s going on, boys?” she asks, crouching down on her knees to get a closer look at Stiles. He grins when he catches her gaze.

“My dad thinks you’re beautiful,” he says, reaching out to cuff her chin affectionately. “Scott’s mom. Scotty’s mom has got it goin’ on.”

Melissa blushes, then composes herself and bats Stiles’ hand away. “Did you take something, Stiles? Drugs? Or was it...” she looks around, then lowers her voice. “Supernatural?”

“He hit his head,” Derek chimes in. “I think he has a concussion.”

Melissa reaches up to feel Stiles’ head, just like Derek had in the bathroom. “That’s quite a bump. Okay, boys, sit tight and I’ll see if I can get you the VIP room.”

She walks away, leaving Derek to fill out what information he can on the admissions forms. He’s filling out Stiles’ address when he feels a weight on his shoulder and looks down to find Stiles snuggling up to him.

“Thank you,” Stiles murmurs, his eyelids fluttering. “I wanted you, and you came.”

Derek grits his teeth and keeps writing.

* * *

Stiles does get the VIP room. Well, at least he gets _a_ room, and not just a curtained-off area on the main floor. There’s an observation window, but it’s at least mostly private.

“How did you hit your head, Stiles?” she asks, flipping through the forms attached to Stiles’ chart. She frowns at the patient information form, scratches out ‘Stiles’ and scribbles in something else. When Derek leans over to peek at the form, she smacks him with the clipboard and flips the chart to another page.

“I think I fell down,” Stiles says, looking to Derek for confirmation.

“He hit his head on the countertop. They just remodeled--it’s granite.”

“What were you doing before you fell?” Melissa asks. “Were you exerting yourself?” Stiles looks to Derek again, watches his cheeks flush pink as he stammers out an answer. 

“I think he was uh, showering,” Derek says, rubbing the back of his neck and looking down at the floor. It’s quiet for a minute, and then Melissa approaches Derek, getting up in his face. 

“If there’s something you aren’t telling me...” she says, her voice low and calm. “Is there anything... you know, werewolfy going on here?”

Derek’s face is red now, and he looks up at Stiles staring at him innocently. “Let’s go outside for a second,” he says to Melissa. He leads her out of the room, and Stiles watches them through the observation window. He tries hard to remember what he was doing before he passed out, but all he can remember is waking up to find Derek kneeling over him.

Derek and Melissa talk for a few seconds, and then Melissa hits him with the clipboard again. Derek holds his hands up, begging off, and says something else to her. Melissa softens at that, tilts her head, and nods as Derek continues to talk. When he’s finished, she says something else--she looks serious, poking Derek in the chest a few times like she’s threatening him. 

When they come back into Stiles’ room, they’re joined by a resident. He does a quick exam and wants to discharge Stiles, but Melissa insists that he get a CT scan before he can leave.

* * *

Stiles is discharged a few hours later, after a clear CT scan and a panicked appearance by his dad. Derek left after the Sheriff arrived, but Stiles had a feeling he was still lurking nearby.

The doctor gives Stiles’ dad instructions to let him sleep, but wake him up every few hours to make sure he’s okay. Stiles dozes through most of the discharge instructions, most of the car ride home, and wakes up just enough to allow his dad to help him upstairs. 

He’s not sure what time he falls asleep in his own bed, but the bright blue letters on his alarm clock read 2:00 AM when his dad shakes him awake. 

“Stiles, wake up a little,” he says, sitting on the edge of Stiles’ bed.

“Not time for school,” Stiles grumbles. “Five more minutes.”

“Just wake up for a minute, and then you can sleep. Tell me your name?”

“Stiles.”

“What’s your real name?”

“Just because you saddled me with that monstrosity before I was old enough to object doesn’t mean I’m going to _acknowledge_ it,” Stiles says, rolling his eyes.

“There’s my boy,” the Sheriff says, squeezing his shoulder. “Go back to sleep, Son.”

Stiles flops back down in bed, and he can feel the lump on the back of his head aching again. “Dad? Where’s Derek? Did he come back with us?”

“Not sure. He left after I got to the hospital.”

“Oh,” Stiles says, disappointed for a reason that’s still not quite clear in his mind. Even though he’s starting to feel sharper, more like himself, he’s still not sure exactly what caused all of this. He knows he passed out in the bathroom, and he knows Derek told Melissa he was only out for a minute before he woke up--was Derek here already when he passed out?

Stiles isn’t sure, he just remembers wanting Derek-- _needing_ him--and Derek being here.

“Go back to sleep,” the Sheriff repeats. “You can call Derek tomorrow.”

“G’night, Dad.” 

The Sheriff closes the door to Stiles’ bedroom and Stiles rolls around a little, trying to get comfortable. He settles on his right side, facing the window, to keep the pressure off the lump on his head. He’s exhausted, his eyelids heavy, but his brain is waking up now and and he’s trying to sort through everything he’s remembering.

Stiles wanted Derek, and Derek was here. 

He _wanted_ Derek, like he does most of the time. But it was sharper, more desperate. He was... 

Oh. 

Oh, God.

He was jerking off. He’d been fantasizing about Derek while he showered, stroking his hard-on with a soapy hand and reaching behind himself to push a fingertip into his hole. He knew his dad was gone, so he wasn’t being quiet about it--he was whimpering, working his hips, leaning against the slippery wall of the shower and moaning Derek’s name. 

There was a noise, a loud thump, that startled Stiles out of his hazy, almost-orgasmic state. He assumed his dad was coming home early and decided to make a break for his bedroom. He rinsed off quickly, then whipped the shower curtain open and grabbed for a towel.

He stepped out and cracked the bathroom door open. “Dad?” he called.

No answer.

He was still alone, and he still had a raging hard-on. He’d been close before and he was aching to come. He leaned against the counter, bracing himself with one hand, and stroked himself again with the other. God, he was so close--he’d been right there, imagining Derek doing this to him. Imagining Derek’s thick cock in his ass, Derek’s big hand wrapped around his cock.

“Fuck, fuck me,” he moaned, his legs starting to wobble as his orgasm crested. “ _Derek_.”

Stiles remembers now. Remembers hearing it, the sharp intake of breath from just outside the bathroom door. Remembers looking over, seeing Derek’s glowing blue eyes staring back at him.

He wanted Derek, and Derek was there. 

He came so hard he passed out.

He barks out a laugh in the dark of his bedroom, relieved and embarrassed in equal measures. On one hand, Derek caught him jerking off--moaning Derek’s name, eliminating any possible chance Stiles had of keeping his crush under wraps. On the other hand, he has an honest-to-god _sex_ injury, which is pretty badass.

He’s sure he’ll be panicking about this in the morning, but right now all he can do is sleep.

* * *

His dad wakes him again at five thirty to give him another quiz about his name and his whereabouts.

“My bedroom, our house, Beacon Hills, California, United States, Earth, the Universe,” Stiles says, pulling the covers up over his head. 

“Alright, go back to sleep,” the Sheriff says. “Try not to get up again. Do you want me to close the window?”

Stiles blinks in the darkness. His head is clear enough now that he knows the window was closed the last time he fell asleep.

“No,” he murmurs. “The breeze is, yeah. Good.”

“Okay. Sleep tight,” the Sheriff says, patting Stiles’ shoulder before he leaves the room, closing the door gingerly behind him.

Stiles sits up as soon as his dad’s footsteps have retreated.

“Derek?” he whispers, eyes darting around the room. He’s starting to think he’s crazy, or that his brain is still fuzzy from the concussion, when Derek’s face appears in his bedroom window.

“Sorry,” he whispers. “I just came to see if you were okay.”

“Get in here, don’t just hang outside of my bedroom window like a creep,” Stiles demands. Derek throws the sash up and swings himself into Stiles bedroom, then stops short before he can step any closer.

“Are you--how are you feeling?”

“Fine,” Stiles says. “Head hurts a little, but I think I’m... you know. Back.”

Derek exhales slowly, and reaches for the window again.

“You could stay,” Stiles blurts out. “If you wanted.”

“Do you want me to?” Derek asks, hesitant.

“I think the cat’s pretty much out of the bag on that one,” Stiles answers, ducking his head in embarrassment.

“So you, uh, remembered?”

“Remembered making a complete ass out of myself in front of the object of my every sexual fantasy? Yeah. Crystal fucking clear.”

Derek’s eyes widen at that, and he takes a step closer. 

“You didn’t. Make an ass out of yourself.”

“You caught me jerking off and I _passed out_ Derek. What is not completely ridiculous about that situation?” 

“It wasn’t ridiculous,” Derek argues, stepping closer again. He swallows, looks into Stiles’ eyes, and whispers, “it was hot.”

Stiles’ heart thumps faster, but he still can’t quite believe it. “Which part? The passing out or the concussion?”

Derek finally reaches him, sits down on the edge of Stiles bed, and takes a deep breath. “Not that. The before part, when you were--”

“How did you know? What were you even doing here?” Stiles asks, trying to ignore the throb of his cock as it stiffens up. 

“I come by, sometimes. Just to check, make sure you’re okay. And I heard my name...”

“And what, you thought I was being tortured or something?” 

“No,” Derek says firmly. “No, I knew exactly what you were doing.”

Stiles’ mind, which had been so fuzzy and slow after his fall, is back up to full speed. Derek heard him, he knew what he was doing, and he didn’t yell at Stiles about appropriate boundaries. He didn’t leave and watch hours of porn to bleach Stiles’ sounds from his brain. He stayed. Stiles wanted Derek, and he came, because Derek wanted Stiles, too.

“Well, shit,” Stiles says, just before he wraps his hand around Derek’s neck and pulls him in for a messy, sloppy kiss. 

It’s awkward and kind of terrible, all teeth and uncomfortable angles. Derek pulls away, his eyes flashing blue, and cups Stiles’ face in both hands. He kisses him again, slowly this time, and it’s sweet and hot and everything Stiles has been wanting for so, so long.

They kiss until Stiles’ lips are numb, until the friction of the sheets on his cock is too much, and then they pull away to catch a breath. 

“I should go,” Derek says. 

Stiles eyes widen. “What? No. Hell no,” he says, lying back in bed and pulling Derek down on top of him. “You’re staying.”

“You’re hurt,” Derek protests, even as he shifts his body against Stiles’. Stiles can feel his erection through his pants and three layers of bedding, which makes him shiver even under the warm covers. 

“I’m fine,” he argues, tugging the covers out from between their bodies so he can feel the heat of Derek directly. “Just have an acute case of hard-on-itis.”

Derek chokes out a laugh and shifts to Stiles’ side, flattening his palm on Stiles’ chest and sliding it slowly down over his stomach. “We probably shouldn’t do anything, you might pass out again.” 

“If we _don’t_ do anything, you’re the one that’s going to need to go to the ER,” Stiles growls, shoving Derek’s hand down to where he’s tenting his pajama pants. 

To his credit, Derek doesn’t laugh at the threat. He just rolls closer so he can kiss Stiles’ neck while he rubs slow circles over his cock, through his pants. 

“Do you always come that hard?” Derek asks, lips brushing against Stiles’ throat. He pushes Stiles’ pants down, freeing his cock, and wraps one big hand around it.

Stiles tries to laugh, but he’s so overwhelmed by the feeling of Derek’s hand on his dick that it comes out like a desperate whine. “No, no, never,” he gasps. “Think I’d be dead by now.”

“I’ll catch you next time,” Derek says firmly. It sounds like a promise. “Wanted this for so long, Stiles. Want you to come for me, want to see it again.”

Stiles is helpless at that, both of his hands clutching at Derek’s forearm as he bucks his hips up into Derek’s fist. 

He doesn’t pass out this time, just arches his back and comes all over Derek’s hand, mouthing desperately at Derek’s shoulder. He has a vague thought about reciprocating, doing something about the thick erection pressed against his hip, but he’s too exhausted now, already on the edge of sleep.

“Don’t leave, kay,” he murmurs, nuzzling into Derek’s neck. “Want you here. Jerk you off in the morning, promise.”

“Shh, Stiles,” Derek says. “Go to sleep.”

“You’re really here?” Stiles says, half asleep.

“I’m here. I’m staying.” Derek kisses his cheek. “Sleep.”


End file.
